Komaal II
by Gutsu
Summary: This story has been canceled and there are no further plans to add to it at this time. The author has decided to scrub it and work on shorter stories.
1. Prologue

_It is the 41st Millenium. _

_For more than a hundred centuries the Emperor has sat immobile on the Golden Throne of Earth. He is the Master of mankind by the will of the gods, and master of a million worlds by the might of his inexhaustible armies. He is a rotting carcass writhing invisibly with power from the Dark Age of Technology. He is the Carrion Lord of the Imperium for whom a thousand souls are sacrificed every day, so that he may never truly die._

Yet even in his deathless state, the Emperor continues his eternal vigilance. Mighty battle fleets cross the daemon-infested miasma of the warp, the only route between distant stars, their way lit by the Astronomican, the psychic manifestation of the Emperor's will. Vast armies give battle in his name on uncounted worlds. Greatest amongst his soldiers are the Adeptus Astartes, the Space Marines, bio-engineered super-warriors. Their comrades in arms are legion: the Imperial Guard and countless planetary defense forces, the ever vigilant Inquisition and the tech-priests of the Adeptus Mechanicus to name only a few. But for all their multitudes, they are barely enough to hold off the ever-present threat from aliens, heretics, mutants - and worse.

To be a man in such times is to be one amongst untold billions. It is to live in the cruelest and most bloody regime imaginable. These are the tales of those times. Forget the power of technology and science, for so much has been forgotten, never to be re-learned. Forget the promise of progress and understanding, for in the grim dark future there is only war. There is no peace amongst the stars, only an eternity of carnage and slaughter…

… _and the laughter of thirsting gods._

Prologue copyright Games Workshop publishing arm.


	2. Komaal II

His heart hammered his chest while adrenaline pumped into his system, keeping the pain muted against the fear. The PDF trooper kicked the ground with each long legged sprint, feeling lightened without his lasgun clips and back pack. Much of his issued equipment was either used up or lost in the mad sprint when the line was broken half a kilometer back.

The boy stopped and turned sharply, his lungs drawing hard puffs of cold air and his brown eyes wide, keen on any danger that could have followed him. The only thing he saw was an encroaching fog that seemed to creep from the line some fifty meters behind him. He wanted to fire at the occasional shadows that seemed to loom in the mist, but his eyes made out the sight of trees and gnarled roots which calmed him only slightly. He bit his lip and actually pierced the bottom portion. Although he wanted to be prudent and fire, the few rounds left is his rifle represented the very last of his ammunition. The coppery taste of blood was in his mouth.

The boy spun around as he heard a soft crackle from behind, raising his gun to eye level and seeking a target. But nothing stood except blades of color-dulled grass and rain soaked mud that was common of Komaal II rainier seasons. Relaxing a little, the boy stepped forward and saw a trench below him, aside which small piles of mud that were watered down by rain. There was a figure in the pits.

Stepping forward as quietly as he could while steadying his breath, the trooper noticed the remains of a vox-caster specialist, his back pack unit a large electric device that could send and receive messages over kilometers of distance. The vox seemed to still function, sputtering static and occasional voices, but the man who wielded it was nothing but a shredded torso. His head was propped upon his shoulder and blood drooled down his lip, limbs scattered a few meters away with the tendons dragged across the mud.

The trooper covered his mouth and felt his chest and face grow cold. The nausea that formed in his stomach was hard to suppress, but somehow he managed to still the desire to dispel bile from his throat. He had seen much of the same in the last few days that could haunt him for the rest of his life, however long or short it may be.

Stepping forward, the trooper dropped into the trench and braced his knees, feeling his body slightly sink into the mud. With his lasgun tucked over his legs, he reached forward with a trembling, pale hand to the shoulder of the vox-caster and pushed the torso over, leaving the back of the man and his vox-unit facing towards the sky. Immediately the trooper covered his nose, the smell of the corpse's soiled clothes catching him off guard and again the trooper fought the desire to unleash what little remained in his stomach.

Opening his mouth to breathe through, the trooper finally summoned up the courage to reach for the vox receiver and lifted it to his mouth, "This is trooper Zek of the 2nd platoon. Is anyone still out there? Over."

Zek waited amongst screeches of white noise and static. He felt himself begin to rock on the balls of his feet, hunched over the cadaver and felt himself begin to dread.

"…-ek, this is Lieutenant Hammer. Where are you son?"

Zek felt some warmth return to his face as he lifted the receiver again, "I'd say less then a kilo from the eastern line sir. We fell, completely routed. Our sergeant didn't-"

"What happened to the line?"

"It's gone. We were over run by the fog. Then the enemy took our position within the cover of it. All six squads were eradicated. I think I'm the only survivor."

"-lright son, now listen clo-…"

White noise over took the speakers. In his frustration, Zek slapped a wet hand on the box. Somehow, the simple act of violence did the trick.

"-ou need to head west and south. Do not go north, that line was lost an hour ago. The rendezvous is set for Owens' mill. Think you can do that son?"

"Yes sir," Zek's replied frantically.

"We're pulling out in one and a half hours. You need to make the clip s-…"

Static overtook the message, but the sound of groaning some distance off changed everything. Immediately, Zek's dropped the receiver and stood up, his lasgun up and about.

Paralyzed a moment by fear, Zek's glanced down at the vox-caster and knew that the man had no spare clips on him. The dead man's bandoleer was likely torn away by the force of whatever had killed him, or taken by another trooper slightly more desperate then him. Stepping passed the body, Zek's threw himself up the slope of the trench, turning his stomach the color of brown clay as he hoisted one leg, then the other to follow.

As he stood up again, Zek's glanced behind him to spy the looming, humanoid shapes that followed. Slow and steady he backed away and took off running, running west towards the rendezvous point and his last bet for survival, his last chance to truly fight back.

As he ran, something caught his eye above him. His eyes drifted towards the night sky and took notice of a strangely large red star in the eastern hemisphere. The fact puzzled him a moment, for never in the history of his planet's astronomy had Komaal IV looked so bright red.


	3. The Briefing

Major Ikarus Calon was far from the first to show up at the briefing room, but possibly the earliest of the audience. Standing beside a holo-desk, the Lord General himself stood by the flickering globe of a projected planet. Beside him stood a hooded man in a bright red cloak, which left Calon believing him to be a member of the Adeptus Mechanius. The two men were turned away from the Major, and the Cadian began to wonder if perhaps he was too early for the briefing.

As he took a step towards the podium, Calon's booted foot caught one of the snaking cables that ran down the carpeted path. Although the action did not seem to affect the displays, the sound of Calon's feet slapping the ground caused the Lord General and his accomplice to take notice of him for the first time. Lord General Vladimir smiled his wrinkled face at the blushing Cadian, "Trying to get the drop on us, Major?"

Major Calon flashed the man a crisp salute and tried to contain his combination of embarrassment and nervousness, "Thought I'd say hello, but just making a fool of myself sir."

Vladimir's laughter echoed the room.

Calon stood at attention while waiting for the Lord-General to calm his jovial manner, "Am I too early sir?"

Vladimir sighed contently, "No, you're right on time and I admire the punctuality. Say hello to Colonel Breyl Grummerveik and his adjutant Sergeant Augustine Mofor," the Lord-General said while nodding to a pair of figures approaching behind the Major.

Calon turned sharply to greet a short, stern looking man dressed in grey and crimson carapace armor, followed closely by a tall ebony-skinned man who was bald. "Major Calon of the Cadian 33rd I presume?" asked the shorter man.

"In the flesh," Calon replied with another crisp salute. Afterwards, the Major extended his hand to shake with the Harakonian, who took it gruffly with his hand on top, pumping it vigorously with a grasp like a vise. This man was clearly out to prove himself the alpha male, perhaps with aspirations of one day taking Vladimir's position of Lord-General.

"A fine handshake," Calon said as he hid his tingling hand slightly behind his leg and rubbed feeling back into it with his thumb.

"Where is your adjutant Major Calon?" Grummerveik asked. As he did, Mofor turned his head away to watch a small figure thumping his way down the ramp behind them.

"I sent him to take care of a few important details before the meeting, he should be back on tim-" Calon's words stopped as a mug of brown liquid was sloshed his direction by a young, timid hand.

"Here's your cup of recaff sir!" Timith offered eagerly.

Slowly, deliberately, Calon lifted his hand and wiped away some of the spilt liquid from his uniform before taking the mug from his young assistant's hand. There was a long pause before Calon replied in a taciturn, almost sarcastic manner, "Thank you Timith."

Mofor couldn't help but let his laughter thunder from his diaphragm. Even Grummerveik smiled, "Important details, Major?"

"Breakfast of the Emperor's champions, my good Grummerveik," Calon replied with a perked eyebrow. He raised the mug to his lips and privately cursed Timith for forgetting the sweetener again.

"I'm sure men like Commissar Ciaphas Cain would agree with you," Grummerveik said between his chuckles.

Feeling the fool not once but twice, Calon could only nod. But the moment was lost as men and women from various positions, officers and high rated enlisted began to pour into the room and actively seek seating with members of their home world or service branch. Calon took a seat near the front next to his young adjutant, while fishing a cloth from his pockets to deal with the stain on his uniform.

A moment later, Commissar Duval took a seat next to him, "Drinking problems Calon?"

"No, Timith just thought he would help," Calon replied with an edge of sarcasm in his voice. The young lad hadn't heard him in the least.

Duval was a man of honor within the Cadian 33rd. A former naval commissar, Duval saw an opportunity to help the wayward unit during its early days. Though men feared Duval before, they had come to respect the man for his sense of justice and surprisingly warm personality. Many times had the man joined in on the occasional Emperor's Tarot card game, although he suspected some men purposefully let him win. But at the same time, Duval was not afraid to unleash his duties when it was deemed necessary, and had shot men for blatant breaches of discipline. It was rare a man wearing the red sash who could be as respected and feared in that manner.

Duval's aged face turned into a smile, though the holo-projection reflected the luster of his glasses. But the grin disappeared as the podium chimed three times to indicate the start of the briefing.

Eyes turned to the front as the lights dimmed to darkness, where the Lord-General stood illuminated by the massive, spinning globe of the planet in turmoil. When the murmurs passed, and all eyes turned to the front, Lord-General Vladimir spoke for the first time.

"Good evening gentlemen of the Cadian 33rd and Harakoni 42nd. First, I would like to extend the appreciations of the peoples of Komaal II for coming out here to deal with this crisis," Vladimir began, "As you know, resources in this sector are stretched thin, so we would not expend more manpower then necessary to solve this issue. However, this situation has spiraled beyond the control and jurisdictions of even my own command."

Murmurs went up in the audience and quickly died down when reminded of the need for discipline.

"I would like to take this time to introduce the man in charge of this entire operation. Inquisitor Phraeth Kell," Vladimir stated before stepping aside.

Calon felt goose bumps pucker on the back of his neck when these words first came from the Lord-General's lips. If the Inquisition were involved, especially this directly, it meant that the situation was truly critical. Calon had heard enough from other officers to know that the Inquisition preferred to operate as quietly as possible until the need for larger forces was inevitable.

The man wearing the red robe stepped forward and lowered his hood, revealing a short white beard and blaring red bionic eye. His face wore horrendous scars that networked his cheeks, nose and forehead. In the light of the projector, Calon realized that the man's right hand was augmented as well.

A long moment passed almost dramatically before the Inquisitor's gravely voice broke the silence, "Men of the Emperor."

The pause lingered.

"Komaal II lies on the brink of total destruction. From our scouting reports and my own personal field work, we have discovered that the planet is suffering from a plague like no other. An epidemic of near galactic proportions," Kell continued, his glaring red eye scanning the audience.

"The plague strikes, turning the populace against itself. Men and women are transformed into beasts, immune to pain, immune to hunger and thirst. The individuals we fight cannot be viewed as human anymore. They cannot be considered as subjects of the Emperor. We must hunt and fight and pray that their souls may still reach the Emperor on the Throne."

Calon swallowed as he listened.

"And above all, we must act fast if we are to save this planet from the same fate as its sister, Komaal IV."


	4. A Friendly Game

Cowboy didn't know what to make of the Cadians, or perhaps just these particular Cadians. The one on his left smoked a foul smelling cigar and grinned like a rogue, his stubble dark in contrast to his thinning blonde hair, which he had gelled back. His dark green armor contrasted to his wrinkled, khaki pants as he leaned back in his chair, an elbow over the back of it. Cowboy didn't like the look. He didn't like the smell. He didn't like his constant, jovial attitude that mocked him.

And above all, he didn't like losing another hand of Emperor's Tarot.

"Full Throne boys!" the cigar smoking man shouted, his cheeks dimpling with his smile. He laid the four cards of the Golden Throne on the table with a sense of satisfaction that vexed Cowboy.

"That's gukin' the third time you've beaten us," Felix moaned as he slapped his lousy Astartes pair on the table. Felix's new augmented lung probably filtered out the effects of the smoke, but he didn't like the smell either.

"What the warp is your name already?" Grayson asked as he slide his few cubits towards the Cadian Sergeant. This man had simply wandered over to the Harakoni Warhawk's bunking area and plopped down with a handful of cubits. Cowboy, lost in his greed to win more after a string of wins against earlier Cadians, accepted the man's challenge. He hadn't even introduced himself, and Grayson was starting to think that Cowboy's suggestion of 'sucker' was not about to stick.

"Tell you what, you win a round and I'll tell you," the Cadian said. His smirk made Grayson's eye twitch in exasperation.

"You're on. Deal dammit!"

Felix flapped the hexagonal shaped cards into a pile, dividing a hand of six cards to everyone starting from his left. As he slapped the card deck down, Felix eagerly scooped up his cards to find out what he had, taking the card of Saint Ionole and setting it on the right side of his hand.

The Cadian lifted his cigar up and puffed smoke to the ceiling, using his left hand to scratch his chin with a sound like sandpaper being petted. Cowboy tipped his hat slightly. Grayson drew the side of his mouth towards his ear, a definite sign the man was thinking. If the Cadian noticed it, then he didn't care in the least.

Slowly, cards were cast in the center and Felix reached down to hand out new ones in order. The men took their cards and remained solemn as they bemused their hands. A long second passed before Felix spoke, "We ready?"

The Cadian bit his cigar. Grayson nodded while Cowboy said nothing.

"Three Guards," Felix replied, laying down a hand consisting of Saint Ionole, three cards which included pictures of Catachan, Valhallan and Cadian regiments in action against some unseen foes. The remaining two cards were one of the Throne and a strike cruiser, a symbol of the Imperial Navy.

Grayson sighed and let his hands drop the cards on the table, "Shadows and dust here."

Cowboy grinned, almost matching the Cadian. "One Crusade," He wasn't bluffing of course. Cowboy laid down a hand which consisted of two Guards, two Naval ships and an Astartes chapter. His expectant eyes watched the Cadian who said nothing.

"Tsk, guess my name's anonymous," the stranger said before laying out a hand of three Saints and two Thrones, "Imperial Edict."

Grayson slammed his forehead onto the table while Felix and Cowboy could only stare with their mouths opened, fully mortified at their loss.

The Cadian Sergeant turned to his right and laid his black boots on the table. Leaning back, he drew a long breath of his nearly gone cigar and breathed smoke into the air victoriously. But in the moment of celebration, a firm knock struck the doors of the den room, followed by a sharp cry from Corporal Keyes, "Attention on deck!"

The four soldiers shot up from their seating arrangements as a young man in a peaked khaki cap entered and took steps towards the game instantly, slowing down as he stood next to the Sergeant. He wore the insignia of a Cadian Lieutenant on his shoulder as he stared down at the hand of his subordinate. His face was young, strands of long dark hair peeped out from beneath his cap, making Felix wonder if they constantly tickled the man's sharp features. The Lieutenant drew his lips up the sides of his cheek as he looked, "Depriving Harakonians of their cash Sergeant Duke?"

"Well sir, the bet was for my name, so I guess they won this round," Duke replied sharply. He struggled to hide an insubordinate grin trying to form on his face.

"Well, then you won't mind giving them their cubits back and getting to your squad for equipment checks since we're pulling out in ten hours," Lieutenant Brokkenien commented. His face was not assertive, angry, endearing, benevolent nor benign. To Felix, the young man was simply all logic with a voice as monotone as a taught line of string.

"Understood sir," Duke replied, still standing at attention.

"Keep the money," Cowboy stated coldly.

Brokkenien turned towards Cowboy with a cold stare. A moment of tension passed as Cowboy stared at the Lieutenant who could do or say nothing to a man not even of his division or company, "I appreciate the generosity to this undeserving slob, but he is here without permission and should not have come anyway. I would appreciate you not contradicting me with regards to one of my men."

There was a degree of hostility in the Lieutenant's voice now. Grayson realized that in giving Duke the money, Cowboy had undermined the officer's authority. Technically there was nothing Brokkenien could do against the supposedly kind comment made by Cowboy except lodge of discipline complaint with Colonel Grummerveik through his own superior officer, Major Calon. Theoretically, Cowboy didn't even have to stand at attention, and the man's defiant manner came out in the form of a smirk to the young officer.

"No no. I insist," Cowboy said. His smirked widened and was mirrored by Duke who stood behind Brokkenien, completely oblivious.

Brokkenien's jaw clenched a few times while his pale face flushed a few degrees rouge. A moment later, the colors faded back into their pallor, "Thank you then, Corporal?" The question lingered.

"Cowboy, sir," Cowboy smiled, "A pleasure."

"Likewise," Brokkenien stated coldly before turning back towards Duke, who quickly killed his smile. "Get to your squad immediately, dismissed."

"Sir," Duke shot the man a salute before doing an about-face and stepping sharply towards the door. Brokkenien gave Cowboy a final stare before following the Cadian Sergeant.

Felix shot air from his mouth with a hooting motion of his lips, as though he were imitating the rapid fire of a slug auto-rifle, "A fine way to start cooperative efforts, Cowboy."

"Yep, we're goin' ta good friends," Cowboy stated with a cold sarcastic etch to his voice.

Jull groaned and rolled over in his bunk, opening one eye to the still standing group, completely oblivious as to what happened after he passed out a few hours ago. With a powerful stretch and yawn, the giant of a man posed the question, "So what did you guys win?"

- - -

Major Ikarus Calon sighed powerfully, his blue eyes on the data-slate outlining what little tactical information remained relevant to the mission. The drop was scarcely eight hours away, and somewhere in that time he needed to make sure his gear was properly stowed, final checks were made with his regiment, a watered down version of the briefing was handed to every squad sergeant, all gear checks were handed in, the armored division was properly armed and prepared for combat drop, and if there was time, to ensure that he and his regiment got a meal and a few hours sleep before the operation was initiated.

On the couch and floor, Timith laid out the necessary weapons and armor that the Major was going to need. Calon smiled. It was confusing to him, but the young lad who had no ability to remember sweetener for a cup of recaff was still one of the most amazing preparation managers in his staff. The young lad had still gotten the word out to all the platoon officers and their command staff. He had taken care of ammunition, ration, medical supply requisition and all other criteria already, and ensured that the chefs would be preparing a final meal of something decent for the men of Cadia's 33rd regiment to dine on before battle.

The bitter sip of recaff reminded Calon that perhaps it was the Emperor's way of saying that no one was perfect. A knock on the door took Calon's mind off the mindless paper work and pre-deployment chores, "Come in."

Commissar Duval strode into the Major's office, a gloved hand on his glasses, "Ikarus."

"Erik, have a seat," Calon indicated the lone chair that would allow Timith to continue to work.

The Commissar lifted his coat slightly as not to jerk it down as he sat. His elbows on the arm rests, Duval removed his cap to reveal a salt and pepper colored array of hair matted down on top of his long face, "I trust Brokkenien has had a word with you already."

"He has, and I deemed the incident as irrelevant and a waste of valuable time. We cannot afford to get caught up in petty matters before combat, especially when these are our allies we're talking about," the Major replied firmly. With a deft toss, the data-slate clapped his desk as Calon leaned back in his swivel chair, "The Harakoni are going in first, and I'm not about to step on Grummerveik's toes right before combat."

"A wise decision," Duval noted. "And from what little I know of Grummerveik's personality, I would say it would not be treated well."

"I've dealt with enough ego cases to know, but the man seems as solid and determined as any man I've ever met. I doubt he'd be a Colonel for nothing," Calon rebuttal before changing the subject, "But I doubt this is why you came here."

"I just wanted to get the small talk out of the way," Duval said with a smile.

Calon chuckled once, "The operation itself?"

Duval nodded, "If this plague is causing this mass rioting, have we made sufficient preparations for biological warfare?"

"As best we could," Calon raised a hand to indicate his adjutant. "Timith has already made medical care preparations as best to our ability. There isn't much to go on for countering warfare of this nature, and if nothing else we can buckle tight with the reported resistance on Komaal II and hold tight for the Imperial Fists to arrive in sixteen days."

Duval nodded, but still looked at the Major expectedly.

Calon stared at his friend, "I can't read your mind."

"Can we trust them?" Duval asked dryly.

Calon's pursed his lips thinking. The success or failure of this mission pended upon the combined might of two Imperial Guard forces to work together, as well as any remaining PDF forces still on the planet. The ability for the two regiments to work together was an important issue that would be the deciding factor as to whether they succeeded or failed here on this dying planet.

Once deployed, the Harakoni 42nd and Cadian 33rd would be committed.


	5. Drinks and Trophies

Phraeth Kell took a sip of the juissey, savoring its lightly sweetened taste that somehow masked a potent alcoholic bite. It was a gift from one of the wayward planets locked in the Sabbats World Crusade, transforming the once readily available import into a high priced scarcity. A single glass was easily worth thousands of cubits, and the bottle could run into the millions if the right buyer was found. But the Inquisitor had no doubts that Lord-General Vladimir was not the kind of man to waste resources over hard found luxuries, but rather a man of connections and friends.

"Thank you for the drink, my Lord-General," Kell nodded to Lord-General. Seated in wooden chair with soft padding, it was a simple pleasure. Each set of furniture was more then just some mark of nobility or influential background. Rather, they were trophies. Gathered from war torn planets over decades of strife, each piece was a reminder of the cultures and lives Vladimir and the men he commanded fought to save. He did not always understand the people he served, he only knew that they prayed to the Emperor and that was enough for Vladimir. The Lord-General, the Inquisitor had decided, was quite the tolerant man. Compassionate in his devotions to save the Emperor's worshippers. But it was this same attitude that kept him from the Crusades. Vladimir did not have the tenacity for such aggressions.

He would never be a Warmaster, Kell knew.

Vladimir sat back in his chair, holding the drink between both hands. It did not take any psychic gifts for the Inquisitor to see nervousness in the shoulders and posture of the man who led Imperial regiments across the galaxy. But it was not towards the Inquisitor that the Lord-General was feeling this fear.

"You are upset. Over Komaal IV, aren't you," the Inquisitor asked.

"I am, lord," Vladimir replied, shutting his eyes. "I've fought the enemies of the Emperor on His soil since I was inducted into the Guard by my family. Never once have we been required to surrender an entire world so readily to the enemy. Never once have we condemned souls to the fires of a planet killing barrage."

Kell shook his head, "Komaal IV was lost long before its problems were brought to your attention, Lord-General. There was nothing left to do but carry out the execution," the Inquisitor sat back, relaxing in the comfortable chair. A servo-skull, its bone structure reflecting a soft orange hue from the lights of Vladimir's desk, hovered just above the Inquisitor. Clamped in its robotic actuators, the machine held up a scroll to Kell's eyesight, "The thing at the moment is the salvation of Komaal II. And more importantly, the excavation of the system's greatest secret."

The Lord-General nodded slowly, taking a long sip of his drink. A droplet touched his khaki uniform, running down upon a medal of the Utra world's campaign two years ago. Vladimir glanced down and reached with a thumb to rub the alcohol away from his decorations, "Emperor's Throne, if the troops were to see me like this."

"In any shape of form, like this," the Inquisitor stated dryly.

The Lord-General glanced up, feeling his head spin in circles at the Inquisitor's words before nodding.

"Lean back and rest Vladimir, you will need to be alert in a few hours," Kell offered. The servo skull rolled up the scroll and dipped low as it neared the drowsy Vladimir.

Vladimir could only nod as he felt his weight shift and push himself back against his chair, glass slipping from his fingers to the desk, where it inelegantly spun to an upright stop. The servo skull hummed before Vladimir's fleeting eyes as the Lord-General led his consciousness slip.


End file.
